


Puppet

by Dracones95



Category: BioShock
Genre: Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mild Gore, Mind Control, Would You Kindly (Bioshock)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 18:54:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5060116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dracones95/pseuds/Dracones95
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack slowly realises his will isn't as free as he thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Puppet

_Who is Atlas?_

The question had remained taped to almost all the walls of that architectural masterpiece, despite the masses of salty water that had breached it and the massive destruction caused by its now crazed inhabitants. It irked him, that question, just like it had irked other people before, but for now, all there was to do was listen to the voice of the man, coming through the radio, and trust it with his life. The inside of his forearm stung; crimson smudged around a puncture wound, a remainder of how he stabbed himself with that blunt, most likely dirty needle, tainting his system with a substance he heard was called Eve. But Atlas told him to, so it was alright.

The flight was a blur, the crash, even more so. He had found himself surrounded by the water, sinking to the bottom of the Atlantic into a so called paradise of human equality; no gods or kings, only man. Only man and his greed; and by their greed they perished, lost their belongings, their minds and their humanity. Splicers. Mad ramblings and pained screams remained recorded inside his brain, replaying every once in a while and making him grip onto his pistol even tighter. Not being able to trust his own mind was a horrible prospect; being slave to a drug, and to his own gluttony. And he would have felt sorry for them, if the long and ragged cut into his shoulder, where one of those crawling splicers sank one of her hooks, didn't still hurt.

They did it to themselves, he kept telling himself. They took more than they could carry, and collapsed under the weight. The whole city fell with them. No gods or kings, only man. And no one to keep them from destroying themselves.

The voice on the radio was an island of hope, despite the fact that he knew nothing about the man who had introduced himself as Atlas. No one seemed to. Listening to the thick Irish accent somehow calmed him down, dragged him back to his feet whenever he collapsed, either from exhaustion or from the wounds that marred his body. For a strange reason, it felt as if he's known the man forever. Grew up with him.

This world smothered him, from the empty syringes scattered all over the streets and squares to the wide, glowing, and utterly terrifying eyes of the little sisters. Those little girl shaped monsters with warped voices and large needles. And while they were oblivious to the destruction and decay around them, the splicers told a different story. They all seemed to mourn something they had lost. Their children. Their lives. Their sanity. He had listened to the wailing voice of the woman in front of the restaurant, the hand holding the wrench shaking violently. He had to close his eyes tightly as he bashed her skull in, afraid to look into the crib that she was crying over. This world was twisted, fucked up; whoever created it must have been the same.

As he crawled through it, the body count went up; at first, he thought of it as an act of mercy. That wasn't a way to live. But then his mind emptied somehow, and thought nothing of it; this change didn't even have the power to scare him. It looked like nothing could scare him anymore.

* * *

 

_"Meet me in Arcadia."_

His throat felt a little tight after witnessing the submarine blow to bits and having to hear Atlas' sobs on the radio. Andrew Ryan. A name that had felt vaguely familiar when he had first heard it and that was responsible for this underwater hellhole. A wave of animosity towards the man washed over him; a seed of hatred had been planted, and not unjustified.

When the gates of Arcadia opened up, he couldn't help but gape at the tall trees that grazed the arch which served as a roof. A grandiose work of art, the Tea Garden was eerily quiet. Stepping on soft grass again seemed almost surreal; he bent over and touched the green expanse with his fingers. A blade snapped in his hand and he brought it up to his nose, drinking in its fresh smell; a pleasant change from the rotten wood, and rotten flesh.

The bushes shifting behind him had him tighten his grip on the pistol; the carvings on the handle had left marks on the skin of his palms. His hands no longer shook as the crosshairs caught a human body.

"Lower that gun, boyo." The voice was rougher than how he knew it, but the accent was familiar. He relaxed instantly, the arm holding the pistol falling. A feeling of safety took over him; it felt as if that man could never hurt him. That man was all that kept him from falling apart. He saw blonde curls and red eyes, puffy from crying and it felt like someone was gripping his heart in a vice. He listened to his words like they were a sacred prayer, he nodded and agreed without thinking. The closeness of their bodies was intoxicating, but when fingers sank into his hips he didn't protest. Didn't move when the fabric slowly slid south. He wanted it; that's what his mind was telling him.

* * *

_"Please get up, mister Bubbles!"_

He couldn't see the small girl, hidden behind the still smoking corpse of her protector. His throat felt tight again; he decided he hated that choking feeling. She probably saw in the tin machine the same thing he saw in Atlas. Someone to take care of them and guide them through this place that clearly wasn't made for them. He frowned; he wasn't that helpless.

His hand closed around her skinny arm and hoisted her up in the air; her kicking legs hit his chest and stomach fervently, but couldn't hurt him. She was nothing without the Big Daddy that now laid dead at his feet. He's never felt that powerful before. His fingers dug into her green meat and she screamed, high-pitched and loud, but nobody came to help her.

When he was done, her body was limp and a few strands of hair had come out of her ponytail, and Atlas' voice encouraged him over the radio. Called him a good boy. He set her down, next to the Big Daddy; the gaping hole in her stomach was staring back at him and his hands started to tremble, stained green and dark red with slime, Adam, and blood.

His mind was slowly blurring around the edges.

* * *

_"Would you kindly head up to Ryan's office, and kill the son of a bitch."_

Would you kindly. Would you kindly. He repeated those words in his head until they lost meaning, while he ran up the stairs to the office of the man without whom Rapture would have never been built. Adam would have never been discovered. All those people wouldn't have died.

His hatred for Ryan grew stronger and stronger with each step he took. He was out of breath but his mind urged him to go on. He had to kill Ryan. He had to do what Atlas said.

A man chooses, a slave obeys; those were his last words as he smashed the golf club into his temple, sending a spray of crimson liquid all over the hardwood floors. He had convinced himself that he wasn't just doing as Atlas asked him to. He wanted Ryan dead just as much, and he felt fulfilled as he completed his objective. He had wanted Ryan dead. But why?

A man chooses, a slave obeys; it didn't make sense at first, but when the voice on the radio changed, it didn't even matter anymore.

* * *

_"There ain't no Atlas, kid. Never was."_

The shift in tone and accent threw him into a state of anxiety, and fear, like his whole world had tilted and he was slowly, but surely, sliding off.

Fontaine. Atlas. Altas was Fontaine. No. Fontaine was Atlas. His head was a mess. The figure before him lost his golden locks and the look in his eyes was rather bashing, measuring him, up and down. The feeling of safety was long gone.

"Would you kindly come over here, and let me do as I please with you?" He moved, despite himself. Wrong, wrong, his mind screamed at him, but his body refused to listen. All this time, just a puppet on a string. He flinched when he touched him. He's done that before, when he was Atlas, and he's let him. Why not let him now?

But it felt different. His hands were ice cold, and the scrape of his beard against his skin was hurting him. His clothes ripped and he jumped at the tearing sound. It hurt him when he sank into him, but he let him.

How could he not let him, when he's asked so nicely?


End file.
